“I’ve been around the business for a long time. I’ve seen the ups and downs, the glitz and the grime. But through it all, Anthony has always had a unique spark. He’s got something special.”
Blackie Dammett, Anthony Kiedis father
“He’s Got Something Special”: A Father Reflects on Anthony Kiedis
By [Author Name]“I’ve been around the business for a long time. I’ve seen the ups and downs, the glitz and the grime. But through it all, Anthony has always had a unique spark. He’s got something special.” — Blackie Dammett
These words, spoken by Blackie Dammett, father of Anthony Kiedis, carry the gravelly weight of lived experience. Dammett, an actor, artist, and once-prominent figure on Hollywood’s grittier side, was no stranger to the chaos of fame, addiction, and survival in Los Angeles during the golden-yet-grimy years of the 1970s and ‘80s. He knew the games the city played with young dreamers. He played them himself.
And into that world, he brought his son.
To truly understand Anthony Kiedis — the electrifying frontman of the Red Hot Chili Peppers — one must first understand where he came from. Not just Grand Rapids, Michigan, but more importantly, from the dark corners of Sunset Boulevard and the cracked sidewalks of Laurel Canyon, where Blackie raised him in a world of nightclubs, needle-thin actors, and punk poets. It wasn’t the cleanest upbringing, but it was undeniably formative.
“I didn’t raise him in a traditional way,” Dammett once admitted in interviews. “But I gave him a life most kids couldn’t dream of. Was it dangerous? Sure. But it was real. And from the beginning, Anthony had this… light.”
That light — what Blackie called a “spark” — would ignite something monumental.Father, Son, and the City of Angels
Blackie Dammett (born John Kiedis) was a mid-tier Hollywood actor in the 1970s, often cast as the villain or the criminal. He had a look — sharp features, intense eyes — and a personality to match. When Anthony was just 11, he moved in with his father full-time in Los Angeles. It was an unorthodox arrangement, as Blackie wasn’t exactly the prototype of a suburban dad. Their household was more like a rotating cast of characters from the underbelly of the entertainment world.
According to Blackie’s own memoir, Lords of the Sunset Strip, his home was a refuge for artists, musicians, and hangers-on — a place where drugs were abundant, the nights were long, and limits were few. Anthony, still a kid, was exposed to it all: the substances, the sexuality, the unpredictability. It was dangerous — unquestionably — but it also seeded the raw, poetic chaos that would later define his lyrics and stage presence.
“You can’t teach creativity,” Blackie once said. “You can feed it, encourage it, but it’s either in you or it’s not. Anthony had it. Even as a kid, he had rhythm in his voice and fire in his eyes.”The Rise of the Chili Peppers
In the early 1980s, Anthony — along with his high school friends Flea, Hillel Slovak, and Jack Irons — began experimenting with music. Their earliest iterations of the Red Hot Chili Peppers were messy, punk-influenced, and intensely theatrical. They painted their bodies, jumped on stage half-naked (or fully), and spat energy like it was oxygen.
Blackie, who had seen plenty of young hopefuls crash and burn, watched with cautious admiration.
“Most bands flame out in a year,” he said. “But Anthony wasn’t just chasing a scene. He had a vision. He understood the blend of poetry and performance — and he knew how to connect. That’s what separates stars from musicians. The connection.”
By the time Blood Sugar Sex Magik dropped in 1991, the band had not only exploded into the mainstream — they had redefined what funk-rock could be. With tracks like “Under the Bridge” and “Give It Away,” Anthony’s lyrical honesty and vulnerability pierced the bravado of his earlier work. The world was finally catching on to the depth Blackie always claimed his son had.
But the road there was paved with pain: addiction, the tragic death of guitarist Hillel Slovak, lineup changes, and Anthony’s own cycles of relapse and recovery.
Blackie stood witness.
“There were times I didn’t know if he’d survive,” he said quietly in one interview. “Watching your kid battle demons you recognize from your own past… there’s nothing harder. But I never doubted he had the strength.”The Bond Beyond Blood
Though their relationship wasn’t always easy, Anthony and Blackie shared a bond rooted in creativity and raw honesty. Blackie wasn’t a conventional role model — by many standards, far from it. But he was present, often more than most fathers in show business. He was a manager, a supporter, a critic, and at times, a cautionary tale.
Blackie eventually moved to Michigan to live a quieter life, while Anthony remained in the public eye, evolving both musically and personally. He published his own memoir, Scar Tissue, in 2004 — a brutal, beautiful telling of addiction, art, love, and loss. He spoke candidly about his father’s influence: equal parts inspiration and reckoning.
In recent years before Blackie’s passing in 2021, the two remained close. While Blackie battled dementia and other health issues, Anthony would often visit, and the two would reminisce — not just about music, but about the life they lived and survived together.Legacy in Two Generations
“I’ve seen the glitz and the grime,” Blackie said. “And I’ve seen a lot of people lose themselves in the process. But Anthony never lost that spark. Even when things got dark, it was still there.”
That spark is now part of musical history — burning through songs played in arenas across the globe, immortalized in lyrics that continue to resonate with fans decades after they were first written.
Blackie Dammett was never a chart-topper. He didn’t live in the mansion on the hill. But he helped raise a rock star in the truest sense — not just in fame, but in soul. And in doing so, he left his own mark, quietly woven into the story of a man who used poetry to heal and performance to survive.
Some fathers give advice. Others give presence. Blackie gave both — in his own unpredictable way.Would you like this adapted into a screenplay-style scene, a podcast script, or a more poetic version of this tribute?
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